Hot Shot (2 page)

“Well, it's coming along. Sort of.”

She rubbed a handful of ice on her neck, looking at me suspiciously. “You're awfully dressed up for demolition work.”

“I got a job, Claude. At least I think I've got a job.” I told her about Jocelyn's call, emphasizing the “lot of money” part. “And you wouldn't believe who I'm doing the book with. Felina Lopez.”

“Who's that?”

“You remember. The Vernon Ash case. Slut for the prosecution.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Why would anyone want to read a book by someone like that? The Ash case was almost five years ago.”

“She's claiming she had an affair with Dick Mann. And she's ready to spill the beans.”

Claudia made a moue. “Sounds like a tabloid story, not a book.”

“Hey, there's a big check involved. I can't afford to ask too many questions.”

“How big?” Subtlety was never Claudia's M.O.

I hesitated. Jocelyn hadn't mentioned any hard figures, but I didn't want to tell Claudia that.

“Big enough for me to get out of your hair and into an apartment of my own.”

“Must be big if you're wearing a suit,” Claudia said.

*   *   *

“A paper clip on your cuff? Oh, Kieran,” sighed Jocelyn.

“My good stuff's still in boxes. It was the only one I could find.”

Jocelyn sighed again and looked around the lobby of the DuPlante Tower as if she expected to find a menswear shop tucked behind the elevators. I tugged on my jacket. The cuff was undetectable as long as I kept my arm pressed flat against my body. She wet one finger and tried to press down my cowlick.

I squirmed away. “Cut it out, Jocelyn. The hair is genetically uncontrollable. I'm black Irish.”

Jocelyn, who was English, said, “Of that I'm only too well aware.”

She produced a tortoiseshell compact and checked her teeth for lipstick. Jocelyn was wearing one of her usual negotiating outfits, an aggressive red Chanel suit with screw-you pumps and shoulderpads that could slice cheese. Nancy Reagan might have thought it a little severe.

When her teeth had been inspected and her stockings straightened, Jocelyn pushed a button. An elevator materialized as if it had been waiting just for her. On the way up, I said, “You never mentioned any figures.”

“Didn't I?”

“No. You just said a lot of money.” Driving over, I'd run some numbers in my head and came up with three different sums: what I wanted, what I'd take, and what I expected them to offer. “How much is a lot?”

“How much would you accept?”

I groaned. “Come on, Jocelyn. You work for me, not them, remember? Did Danziger mention any preliminary figures? A ballpark number?”

The doors glided open silently, revealing a reception area that could have been decorated by Jane Austen. A Helena Bonham Carter look-alike murmured into the telephone at a spindly-legged receptionist desk. On the far wall, behind an expanse of wine-colored carpet and antique furniture, silver letters spelled out
DANZIGER PRESS
.

Jocelyn leaned over and whispered a figure in my ear.

It was the amount I wanted and the amount I'd take—combined.

My eyebrows went up.

“I told you I'm good, Peaches.”

2

T
HE RECEPTIONIST WORE A
cloche and a pair of hip LA Eyeworks glasses. Before she could snub us, Jocelyn snapped off our names, freeze-drying her 'tude with one sentence. It was like dipping baby's breath into liquid nitrogen.

“Just warming up,” Jocelyn murmured as we sat down.

Looking at the lobby, drinking in the sight of so much old furniture bought with so much new money, I felt my moral compass taking a 180-degree turn. It wasn't just the sum Jocelyn had mentioned that got my cynical heart dripping like a Popsicle; it was the ease with which the deal had been made.

What a piece of work was Hollywood! Your agent has one breakfast with the right person, and you're set up for a year. So I wasn't Saul Bellow, but who was these days? And if I had to have a sleazy tell-all on my résumé, it might as well come from Danziger Press—the gold standard in the sleazy tell-all industry.

In L.A., selling out was just too easy. It was less
Doctor Faustus
than it was
Let's Make a Deal.

*   *   *

Back in the conference room, waiting for Jack Danziger and Felina Lopez, Jocelyn wasted no time setting up. From her briefcase she extracted a heavy Mont Blanc pen and a portfolio covered in understatedly expensive hide, no doubt from some endangered species. She eyed the table and selected the seat that would give her the best psychological advantage. Jocelyn could give Lao-tzu pointers on the art of corporate war. I slumped in my chair, which was covered in silky gray leather. The conference room was just as plush as the lobby. Jack Danziger wasn't doing too bad for a man whose name was once a publishing-world punch line.

There were framed covers of various Danziger Press books on the walls, along with corresponding blowups of the
USA Today
best-seller list, featuring each title at No. 1.

Have You Reached a Verdict?: Inside the Deliberation Room at the Sunset Strangler Murder Case, by Juror 567

Keeping House:
———
and
———
's Maid Tells All About Hollywood's Most Famous Couple

Blow by Blow: The Private Diaries of a Tinseltown Call Girl

“Jocelyn,” I said quietly.

“Hmm?” She had her portfolio open, making notes.

“What if I don't want my name on the book?”

Her pen stopped in midair. “What?”

“Couldn't I be a real ghost? Without my name attached? Just let Felina take the credit?”

“Kieran, are you mad? I spent half an hour this morning getting you that! And not some ‘as told to' credit, Peaches! Full co-authorship!” She read from her notes. “The order and manner of credits given to said parties identified as the Proprietor of the Work shall read “Felina Lopez and Kieran O'Connor,” with both names in the same-sized typeface in all editions of the Work—”

“I thought about it. I don't want it.”

“Peaches…” For the first time since I'd known her, Jocelyn was nearly speechless. “Peaches, billing is
very
important. You live out here, you
know
that. Some people would kill for equal billing. It gives you more money, more leverage on your next book, more everything.”

“I don't care. I don't—”

At that moment, Jack Danziger walked in, and Jocelyn stood up to greet him, shooting me a look that said:
We'll talk about this later.

“Jocelyn, hello.”

“Jack! This is Kieran.”

“Love your column, really love it,” Danziger told me. “Was just reading it the other day.”

“Thanks.” Obviously he hadn't even noticed its absence for the last few weeks. Judging from the lack of protest calls to my editor, neither had anyone else. He pumped my hand. Remembering my own office-supply cuff link, I dropped my hand under the table just as soon as Danziger had shook it with his Nautilus iron-man grip.

Danziger wore one of those flat-fronted Armani suits that look like silk armor, and had a portfolio tucked under his arm. He was a big man, but not fat;
strapping
was the word that came to mind. Lots of Hollywood dealmakers and desk jockeys pump absurd amounts of iron; it must have something to do with their clients' on-screen machismo.

“Felina's not going to be with us,” Danziger said. “Her agent's on her way. Kitty just phoned.”

Jocelyn's eyebrows went up like a window shade. Tardiness was a cardinal sin in her book. Jocelyn was remarkably non-sexist when it came to revenge; she'd as soon have a woman's balls for breakfast as a man's.

“Kitty?” asked Jocelyn. “Kitty Keyes?”

“You two know each other?”

“No,” said Jocelyn, dangerously demure. “But I've always wanted to.”

So had I.

Until just a few years ago, Kitty Keyes had been a struggling talent agent. Not an agent, but a talent agent. An agent books movie stars and Broadway performers; a talent agent books birthday-party clowns and midget bowling teams and Ann Miller impersonators who tap-dance at car-wash openings. Kitty had all these, along with several former child stars whose puberty had killed their careers.

It was one of these postpubescents, Susie Quimby, who had revived Kitty's career. Arrested after trying to hold up a liquor store, Susie told the media that she'd been supporting herself by hooking out in San Bernardino. Awhile back, that might have put an end to any career she had left, but by the end of the week, Susie had more offers than she'd had in years.

Susie Quimby was the new wave, and Kitty Keyes knew it.

Soon after, Kitty dismissed her stable of has-beens and never-wases and founded Scandal, Inc., an agency that represented only the notorious. People laughed, but Kitty was turning a profit faster than Susie could turn a trick. Being bad was now big business.

“Kitty just phoned from the garage downstairs,” soothed Danziger. “From her cellular.”

“I'm here, I'm here,” came a voice from down the hall. “I'm so sorry I'm late, but I just came from downtown; I swear I'll never get used to those one-way streets—”

Kitty Keyes burst in, looking rattled. Jack and I both stood up. Kitty stuck out her hand, and when I took it, she surprised me by pulling me to her and giving me a lipsticky kiss. She smelled like a box of old dusting powder.

With her strawberry-blond cloud of hair, prominent, horsey teeth, pink suit, and orange scarf, Kitty Keyes looked like an old Hollywood warhorse from the late-late show: Rhonda Fleming, maybe, or Dolores Gray. And when she opened her mouth, another actress came to mind: Billie Burke in
The Wizard of Oz.

Kitty hadn't stopped rattling since she walked through the door. “This city has gotten so busy! Or maybe I'm just older than Adam's housecat—I can remember when you could drive from downtown to Beverly Hills in fifteen minutes…”

By the end of her monologue, Kitty had fussed herself into a chair directly across from Jocelyn, who had remained as quiet as a cobra in a basket until she interrupted gently: “Well, we don't have much time left. Shall we get down to it?”

*   *   *

The deal was straightforward boilerplate. Felina and I would be splitting the advance and any profits 60/40, with a graduated royalty schedule based on the number of books sold. There would be some background about Felina's Hollywood hooker days and some more about the Vernon Ash trial, but the bulk of the book would be about Felina's life as Dick Mann's mistress. Our contract called for a manuscript of approximately fifty thousand words, due one month after signing.

“A month?” I said. “To do research, interviews,
and
write fifty thousand words?” Claudia could forget about any help on the new coffeehouse.

“We're racing the clock. Dick Mann's already been dead a couple of weeks. And the tabloids are about to beat us to it. I've got a contact at
Celeb
who sent me a copy of next Monday's issue. Take a look at this.”

Danziger opened his portfolio and passed us some color photocopies. The lurid cover was familiar to anyone who's ever been stuck in the ten-items-or-less line. Next to a picture of Dick Mann was a bright-red headline:
TV DAD'S WILD SEX LIFE
. The story was on page 3:

DICK MANN'S SECRET LIFE
—
DRUGS, DRINK, ORGIES

Hollywood Party Girl Tells All

by Gina Guglielmelli

“Dick Mann was into booze, drugs, and sex—the kinkier the better!”

In this exclusive
Celeb
interview, that's the shocking charge made by “Desiree,” a Tinseltown hooker who claims she had an affair with America's favorite TV dad.

According to Desiree, she met the star of
Mann of the Family
when her exclusive prostitution service sent her to a Beverly Hills hotel to meet a client she knew only as Mr. M.

“When he opened the door, I recognized him right away,” Desiree said. “He had requested a blonde in a white negligee. When I came in and dropped my coat, revealing the white negligee, his eyes lit up.

“We made love several times that night, stopping only to order room service. Dick was insatiable. I knew he was married, but it didn't seem to bother him.

“On my way out, he gave me a $400 tip in cash and said he'd see me again.”

That was the first of several meetings, according to Desiree.

“On one occasion, he had me dress in a white nurse's uniform. He had a thing for white. Another time, he requested …

I quit reading. Sex fantasies, viewed from outside the bedroom, are always either screamingly funny or just mundane. Dick Mann's were in the latter category.

“Can you have a disk ready to go in four weeks?” Danziger asked me.

“I can try.”

“Felina's already started jotting down a few things,” Kitty murmured.

“Can you get down to Mexico in the next few days? Felina's eager to get started.”

“Why are we doing it in Mexico?”

“Kieran's right,” Jocelyn said. “Or can't your client come into the United States?”

“Of course she can. But she's insistent on doing it there. Which brings up another point,” Kitty said. She cleared her throat. “Dear, I've got a question to ask you, and I'm not quite sure how to do it except to be blunt.”

“Go ahead and ask,” I said, puzzled.

“Well, then … what's your astrological sign?”

Jocelyn's eyebrows disappeared under her hairline.

“Capricorn.”

Kitty inhaled. “I was afraid of that.”

“What, Capricorn is that bad?”